All Fine
by Kuromei Aibyouka
Summary: John just isn't having a good day. He woke up late, forgot his coffee, and Sherlock dragged him off to a crime scene in the middle of his work day. The last part may not have been so bad, if it didn't mean he had to go into a gay bar with Sherlock Holmes to catch the murderer. Johnlock. Rated M for the last chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**First Johnlock! **

**I recently became addicted to Sherlock, and I couldn't help but notice the implications of Sherlock's sexuality. So here we are. Inevitable Johnlock. **

**No, I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or any of the other characters from the series. If I did, I wouldn't be here.**

**I'm not British and this story is not Brit-picked. Sorry in advance about any errors.**

**I hope you enjoy and leave me a review.**

* * *

To put it lightly, John Watson wasn't having the greatest of days, and for a number of reasons.

Firstly, it was Monday. Mondays are terrible by default.

Second, not only was it cold, but it was raining. In November. True, weather wasn't usually too bright in London, but that didn't prevent it from putting a damper on John's already not-so-pleasant mood.

Not to mention the hospital was overflowing with cases today. He'd arrived at six thirty and had walked in only to practically be jumped by the nurses, demanding his help. To make matters worse, he had forgotten to grab a coffee this morning.

Don't get him wrong, John loved his career and his work, but every now and again sticking his hands in old men's arses got agitating.

So yes, he wasn't very happy today. He was in one of the foulest moods by the time Sherlock texted him, eight o'clock.

_We've got a case. I'm in the cab outside. Let's go. –SH_

John sighed. Whether it was in relief that he was getting out of the hospital or in awe that Sherlock expected so much, or possibly both, he didn't know.

He made sure the other doctors and nurses knew he was leaving before grabbing his coat and running out into the bitter weather. It had stopped raining for the time being, at least.

Sherlock, as he had stated in his text, was waiting in the cab right outside the doors. People were honking at him, as he was blocking the pick-up and drop-off area. John couldn't help but smile. This was exactly what he needed.

He opened the car door and slid into the seat next to Holmes.

"You took your time," Sherlock said boredly. He was staring straight ahead with his typical almost-irritated face.

"I have other work, you know," the doctor pointed out. "And must you block the-"

"This is more fun than any of that," Sherlock scoffed. The cab began moving now, headed for wherever Holmes had previously told him.

John chuckled. "That may be true, but I am a doctor, Sherlock. That's important too."

At this point the sociopath wasn't paying much attention to his companion, content to glare out the window with his piercing blue gray stare. John sighed again, but he wasn't really put off by Sherlock's lack of attention. The detective was just lucky that John had a hard time retaining a bad mood in his presence.

Rude and seemingly unfeeling as Sherlock was, he was still charming in his own way. John could see that clearly. That was mostly why he continually put up with the younger man.

Against all odds, they were friends. Now John knew Sherlock was his best friend. He really did enjoy the detective's company, especially with his quick wit and sharp tongue. He found himself laughing at Anderson's expressions after Sherlock's insults more and more.

It only took about ten minutes to reach the crime scene. Sherlock hopped out and surveyed the area. John could only gape as he recognized the building they had parked outside.

A bar. He'd never been inside this particular bar, and for good reason.

They were parked outside one of the most well known gay bars in London.

What. The. Bloody. Hell?

While he gaped, apparently he sat there for a bit too long.

"John, come along now. Hurry up!" Sherlock snapped, sticking his hands in his pockets and strolling down the sidewalk. John blinked, then scrambled after him, stopping for a quick second to pay the cabbie.

Did the detective really not care about the reputation of this area? A glance at the younger man's face told John he didn't.

Lestrade met them just outside the yellow tape, filling them in.

Jason Harper. 32, married with no children. Cause of death: two gunshot wounds to the chest at point blank range. Exact gun used not yet identified. That's all Lestrade had so far. No matter, John was certain Sherlock had this. And Sherlock wasn't even listening. Again. He never did, unless it was important. It wasn't important now, John guessed.

The body was in an alley facing up, laying in a pool of blood and dirt mixed together. Sherlock took one look at the bloody corpse and grinned like a child on Christmas morning; or a lunatic, crouching beside it.

"John," he murmured, beckoning him with a finger curved in his direction. "What do you think?"

The doctor went onto his knees next to him, examining the body with a trained eye. Lestrade was right; two bullets, point blank. One just under the right side of his collarbone, the other over the heart. He pulled a set of gloves from his pocket and put them on to check the body's pulse; standard procedure. Even if it was obvious the victim was already dead.

The dead man's skin was cold, but with the weather the way it was, John wasn't surprised. As he was lying on his back, John could see the man's face. He was a little bit taller than John with short dark brown hair and a clean shaven face. It was obvious he'd been trying to look nice at the time he'd been murdered judging by the black silk button-up shirt unbuttoned down to the middle. It kind of resembled the shirts that Sherlock wore on occasion, but he never wore them in that fashion.

John briefly wondered what Sherlock would look like if he unbuttoned one of his shirts like that.

Wrinkling his nose at himself, he shoved the image away to focus on the task at hand. The man's mouth was also smudged with pink lipstick. Hmm, perhaps he hadn't come from the gay bar.

John looked back to Sherlock. "Been dead since early this morning, I'd guess. Five hours, tops."

Sherlock grinned, almost looking evil. Almost. "I've got something."

"I'm afraid to ask," John said dramatically, teasingly.

"He's a lawyer. He worked overtime last night and came home to find his wife having an affair. He left, upset, decided to come to the bar to get a date to get back at his wife," he explained, looking pleased.

"Go on," John prompted. "Who was his murderer?"

"See those, John?" Sherlock pointed to the sandy dirt just a few feet away from the body. In the sand was a few marks from what looked like high heeled shoes, the indentations looking like the woman had made a hasty retreat. "He bumped into an _old friend_."

"Decided to take her home and she killed him?" Anderson asked, popping into the alley.

Sherlock smirked. "Basically. When he reached this general area he decided against it. His little friend wasn't pleased. He grew insistant, and he was killed."

Anderson snorted. "Do you have any idea what kind of bar this is? Not the ideal place to meet an old girlfriend."

Sherlock chuckled. "You're right, but you made a dreadful assumption."

John tilted his head to the side. Lestrade crossed his arms.

"He wasn't meeting an old girlfriend," he continued.

Anderson scrunched up his face in a very unattractive manner. "But you said-"

"He ran into an old lover. I never said it was a girlfriend." At that statement, John gave a little 'Oh' of realization, and Sherlock's grin widened. He liked that John was smarter than most, at least. "Our Mr. Harper was bisexual."

Anderson finally caught on, but looked skeptical. "Heels and lipstick?"

"A drag queen, Anderson. God, you're dense. I don't know how Donovan puts up with you," Sherlock muttered, standing up. John straightened and got to his feet as well, peeling off the gloves.

"I've got a plan."

...

Though he had a plan, Sherlock had refused to reveal it to Lestrade, so he took John back to the flat to explain.

Once inside, he tossed his coat onto the rack without looking, lazily slumping into his chair. "We've got to go to that bar tonight, John."

John froze next to the door, his eyes darting to his best friend. "What?"

"We've got to go into the bar and find Mr. Harper's little friend."

"You could go by yourself," John pointed out.

Sherlock nodded. "I could, but I'd prefer to take you with me. It's proven that the culprit carries a gun and clearly isn't afraid to use it."

The doctor groaned, knowing he was losing. "Why would he go to the bar right after he murdered someone?"

"He's a frequent visitor, I'm sure. Suddenly deciding not to go for no good reason would make people suspicious much faster."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes shut. "Sometimes, I swear I hate you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and leaned forward in his chair. "Am I supposed to be surprised by this?"

"I guess not. Why do I put up with this again?"

"Because it's exciting. Now that this is settled, I need to discuss some things with you." He motioned to the couch, indicating he wanted John to sit across from him.

John went over to the couch and dramatically sat down, lacing his fingers together in his lap. "What do you need to tell me?"

"To fit into the bar setting, we must pretend we are homosexual. A straight man wouldn't simply wander in for no reason," Sherlock stated.

John sighed. He was right, of course. When wasn't he? "Okay," he acknowledged.

"As I assume you do not want to be separated during the investigation, I suggest that we pose as a couple."

John stared disbelievingly at his best friend. Surely he was joking, right? Pretend to be a couple? Was he out of his highly-functioning sociopathic _mind_?

Sherlock looked completely unconcerned at the doctor's shock. Then again, nothing short of catastrophe seemed to affect him. John decided if he was proposing it, it must be for good reason.

If they acted as a couple, they had a reason to be close to each other all night.

Bah. Blast Sherlock Holmes and his bloody logic!

"Fine," he ground out.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, leaning back in his chair again. "I didn't expect you to concede so quickly."

"Conce-? Oh, never mind. What do you want me to do?"

Sherlock waved his arm about in the air dismissively. "Just act like we're in a relationship."

"I don't know how!"

"You've been in several relationships, John. This can't be much different," Sherlock muttered in a 'duh' tone. John choked out an almost-laugh. It was completely different, wasn't it?

"Yes it is different Sherlock; I've only been in straight relationships!"

Sherlock raised both his eyebrows, lacing his fingers together as John had done. "Really? Explain the difference to me."

John frowned. He hadn't exactly thought about how straight and gay relationships differed; he'd never been in a gay relationship. So really, he couldn't prove there actually was a difference. However, he did sort of have a card he could play. "Women are different."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I suppose, but the relationship itself can't be too different."

John opened his mouth to say something, but he had nothing. Damn it. Why was it so bloody hard to argue with Sherlock Holmes?

He continued. "You still date, don't you? Go out, have fun, be affectionate?"

"I… I guess," John admitted. "You're right."

"Of course I am."

"Of course you are."

"Now," Sherlock said as he stood up. "Let's get dinner, change into our club clothes, and catch a killer."

"Normal night out." John rolled his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here we go! Chapter two!**

**To tell the truth, I'm not happy with this chapter and I have no idea what I'm doing! Leave a review with tips or PM me with corrections and pointers.**

**I don't have a beta and I'm not British, so sorry about any errors!**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

* * *

Strangely enough, Sherlock seemed to have taken fashion tips from the late Mr. Harper. When they hopped into a cab to head over to the bar, Sherlock shed his coat and jacket and unbuttoned three buttons of his blue silk shirt, rolling up the sleeves.

"Ah, Sherlock?" John said quietly, looking at him like he'd lost his mind.

"Hush, John. We want to fit in. Actually, it might be a good idea for you to do the same." Sherlock folded his coat and tucked it over his arm neatly so it wouldn't wrinkle.

John sighed, running stressed fingers through his graying sandy hair. He wasn't quite sure he was ready. How would one prepare for something like this?

Sherlock rubbed his temples and narrowed his eyes at the back of the cabbie's seat like the chair was Anderson. Hmm. He must be concentrating on something. "He'll be in drag, most likely at the bar or in a corner smoking, possibly shaking hands, nervous twitch, not looking for a partner."

Most of what Sherlock said made sense to John, as he was a relatively smart fellow. Of course the culprit would be in drag, as he had been the night before. Drinking and smoking, along with shaking hands or a nervous twitch could be a sign of guilt and/or paranoia. Not looking for a partner, maybe it was because of the fact that the last one he tried to sleep with ended up being killed, and by his hand no less.

Sherlock turned his head slightly to look at his companion. "John, I hope you're not opposed to holding my hand."

John released a nervous laugh. "That's the least of my worries right now, Sherlock."

Sherlock half-smiled. "So you're not opposed to it?"

"No."

"Good. Affectionate embraces?" Sherlock pressed.

John groaned. "It's going to get worse, isn't it? Yeah, I'm alright with 'embraces'."

"Very good. I can't guarantee that's all we'll need to do, but it's good to have your okay." He cracked his neck to the side, as if warming up. Maybe he was.

This reminded him, Sherlock had neglected to bring his trademark scarf. Now that he had really noticed it, the brunette didn't seem like himself without it. Not that his personality changed a bit; he was still an annoying dick, but still. It was strange seeing him outside without it, especially in the cold.

Ah, well. John couldn't deny that he was worried about tonight. His acting wasn't exactly superb and he wasn't excited about pretending to be gay all evening.

_Just breathe, _he told himself. _Relax and it will all be fine._

…

The cab dropped them off just outside, like before. Sherlock hopped out into the light drizzle and waited for John like a gentleman, patiently waiting for his friend to come around to his side before taking his hand.

That was Sherlock's signal; it was show time.

Biting back angry comments, he nodded, telling Sherlock that he understood. Sherlock smiled and led him inside.

The first thing John realized about the place was that it was more like a club than a bar, as more people were dancing than drinking. It appeared to have two floors as well; a few spiral staircases were scattered about the room. It was dark, too, with only a few flashing lights telling them where they were going. It was frustrating and confusing, but John forced a smile onto his face as he looked up at his boyfriend for the evening.

Sherlock leaned down to yell into his ear; it was too loud for whispering here. "Keep an eye open and don't get lost!" When John nodded in confirmation, Sherlock drug him onto the dance floor.

John followed him stiffly, uncertainty clouding his mind. He was never a good dancer, nor was he comfortable on the dance floor unless it was to waltz.

The people on the floor definitely weren't waltzing.

Sherlock didn't seem to care. The scantily clad men dancing around him only took up a fraction of his attention; his icy green eyes were trained on the walls and corners. Right then, John really wished he could do that, just stop caring about where they were and focus on what they were doing. They could have gone into a bloody strip club and Sherlock would stay focused.

Relief bloomed in his chest when Sherlock towed him toward the bar part of the bar instead and hopped onto a stool. John sat next to him.

"Entrance is key, John," Sherlock spoke into his ear again. "Now that it's out of the way, we can split up, if you wish."

He shook his head. "No, Sherlock. I'll stay with you. I don't mind, really."

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched in silent doubt, but he didn't say a word.

"Hey!" the bartender called to them, grinning. His skin was golden and his hair was long and brown. "Can I get you two anything?"

Sherlock nodded, leaning forward to order something John couldn't hear. The man bobbed his golden head once, then turned around for a few minutes to mix the drink. John looked at the brunette suspiciously, but Sherlock paid him no mind.

When he turned back around and served Sherlock his drink, John saw it was a large green looking drink with an odd shaped glass. When Sherlock brought the red straw to his lips, it looked absolutely _sinful._

Suddenly Sherlock froze, staring straight past John before getting up with his drink and practically bouncing away towards the direction he'd been staring. The two men looked after him.

"Well, he's… energetic," the bartender muttered, glancing back at John.

John chuckled. "That's an understatement."

The other man's grin turned mischievous. "Even more so in the sack, eh?"

John immediately reddened. "Ah, well…"

The bartender laughed and nodded. "Let me know if you need anything." And he went back to his other customers.

The doctor sighed, deciding to look for anyone who might fit Sherlock's description.

After a while of asking around about Jason Harper, only a few people had seen him because he'd come in around 3 AM. Those who had didn't know who he had left with.

After another unsuccessful conversation, he looked back toward Sherlock. He was leaned against the far wall, chatting up what looked like an uncomfortable woman.

A suspect?

Without thinking about it, John hopped off his stool and made his way through the crowd to him. A few people brushed up against him, but he was glad at least that no one had made a grab for his package.

Sherlock smiled charmingly at the drag queen with the blonde wig and high heeled boots, saying something John couldn't hear when he approached. Sherlock immediately looked up.

"John!" he cried, leaping at him with his arms reaching out as if for an embrace. John forced a smile and caught him, slinging an arm around his waist. He suspected Sherlock was drunk. Then again, Sherlock was an impossible one to deduce. "I just met the most incredible person! Logan, this is my boyfriend John. John, this is my new friend Logan."

John nodded toward 'Logan'. He knew from experience that sometimes people lied about their names when they were suspicious of people. And no offence to Sherlock, but he could be a bit intimidating. "Hello."

'Logan' nodded back. "Hi, John. Sherlock was just telling me all about you."

Now that he was close enough to get a good look, John noted that there was a slight tremor in Logan's hand when he reached for a drink from the nearby table. Ah. So he was a suspect.

"Oh? Only good things, I hope," John replied, looking sideways at Sherlock. Sherlock smirked and leaned down to give him a quick peck on the lips.

John's eyes widened considerably for a few seconds before he remembered what they were supposed to be doing. Though he should have seen it coming, the shock, the thrill, zinged through his entire body.

Goddamn Sherlock and his bloody distracting lips!

Logan's giggle managed to bring him back to his thoughts.

Sherlock's smirk widened. "I was talking about the lovely evening you treated me to last night. Dinner was exquisite," he sighed dreamily. "What did you do last night, Logan?"

Logan stiffened, as John suspected he would.

"Uhm, I came here, danced for a bit, went home," he stuttered, averting his gaze. "Oh, excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom."

And he practically ran away. Quite a feat in those shoes, John thought in amusement.

"I'm going after him," Sherlock muttered. "He's under pressure. He's about to cry. If I ask now, he'll confess and turn himself in."

"Sherlock, he's dangerous!" John protested, turning Sherlock to face him. The taller man tried to shake him off, but John stood fast.

"Call Lestrade, John. Tell him I'm about to catch a murderer and to stand by."

John glared. "Sherlock…"

"Trust me, John," he breathed. The sound was stolen by the ruckus around them, but John could read lips fairly well.

John sighed again. "Be careful."

And Sherlock, too, was gone. John made a mental note that if he wasn't back in five minutes, he was going after him. He sat back and leaned against the wall as Sherlock had done.

A minute passed. John ordered a drink from the bartender, downing it in seconds.

Two minutes. He glanced at his watch for the fifth time.

Three. His fingers began to twitch.

Four.

John was already moving by the time five minutes had passed. He patted his gun, making sure it was still there, as he approached the bathroom. He didn't hesitate a second before bursting in.

The first thing he noticed was that Sherlock was in there. With his hands up.

The second thing he noticed was the tear streaked face of Logan, holding the gun in front of him.

The third thing he noticed was that the gun was now trained on him.

"John," Sherlock said quietly without turning around. "Don't move."

John froze, his hand so close to reaching his gun.

"Shut up!" Logan screamed, shifting from foot to foot. "I loved him, you know? When he left me I was just… I dunno."

"I know," Sherlock murmured. "But you killed him."

A sob shook his frame. "He asked me… if I still carried a gun. I said yea, I did, so he said to show him. I showed him, and then he said to shoot him."

"And you did."

"I didn't want to!" Logan wailed. "He said he would leave and do it himself if I wouldn't, and…"

"Look," John said soothingly. "It's alright."

"No! No, it's not!" Logan cried.

Sherlock attempted to take a step forward, but Logan whirled on him, looking possessed.

Within seconds, John had his own gun out, aimed at Logan and fired straight into his shoulder. A non-lethal shot, but it would knock him down.

Logan gave a yelp of surprise and fell not-so-gracefully into a heap on the floor.

John hurried over to Sherlock, sliding his gun back into the holster and grabbing him by the shoulders.

"John," he scolded.

In a rush of relief, anger, and something he couldn't identify, John crushed his lips to Sherlock's.

Sherlock started to say something, but it dissolved against John as his back slammed into the wall. His slender violinist fingers slid into his sandy hair and tugged gently, causing John to groan. Sherlock's tongue eagerly slipped into his parted lips, tasting and teasing.

With a gasp, John pulled back, realizing what had just happened.

Oh.

"We, ah, should call Lestrade, and… yea," John mumbled, looking anywhere but at Sherlock.

Sherlock hadn't moved from where John had just pinned him against the wall, shocked and frustrated. Confusion mixed with hurt and anger as he wondered what he had gotten into to John, only to be knocked out a second later.

Sherlock growled in irritation, pulling his phone out of his pocket to call Lestrade. He filled him in on the details, ordering some officers and an ambulance before sliding the phone back into his pocket.

He'd deduced that John had been attracted to him by the occasional glance at his lips, flushing of cheeks, dilation of pupils… So what was the matter?

Well, other than the fact that they were almost standing in someone else's blood.

Sherlock could tell John would never bring this up again, if he could help it. So obviously, something about the exchange bothered him. His eyes narrowed at his shorter companion, scrutinizing him as he was being questioned by Lestrade.

If this was how John was going to play it…

Let the real game begin.


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter was quite a bit of fun to write... Muahahaha... But still probably not very good. As stated before, I have no beta, and I'm not British. **

**I don't own Sherlock, either. Bummer. **

**Leave a review with thoughts or PM me.**

**I hope you like :)**

* * *

John knew something was different. Something about Sherlock had definitely changed. John knew, he was certain… but he wasn't quite sure what.

Ever since the bathroom incident, as his mind had dubbed it, Sherlock started acting… odd. Not anything too drastic, but a change nonetheless.

He was _nicer_. He didn't call John an idiot every day. He stopped keeping his experiments all over the kitchen. He put his dishes in the sink when he was done with them instead of leaving them wherever he'd been sitting.

His physical appearance had changed somewhat as well. He wore his shirts the same way he had when they went to the bar, unbuttoned slightly, and he was combing his hair more often. His lips seemed to be constantly moist and glossy, and he always seemed to be smiling now.

Not that he was complaining, but John was confused. He expected Sherlock to bring up the bathroom incident, or at least try to, as Sherlock was stubborn by nature and never seemed to drop things. But no, the detective surprised him by going right back to normal, with a slight change.

What was up with Sherlock? Was he trying to get on his good side so John would let him do a bizarre experiment or something? No, John thought, Sherlock could guilt him into almost anything without having to pull something like this. But what other explanation was there for something like this?

Or maybe _this _was the experiment.

That would make sense, but what in the hell was he testing? Was he even testing John?

Other than Sherlock's odd behavior, life went on like it had before. Sherlock remained brilliant, solving crimes with John, and John blogged about it. Except when there weren't any cases, then John just sat there boredly while Sherlock, strangely enough, was perfectly fine with the break.

"Damn it, Sherlock," John groaned finally after nearly a week with nothing to do. "When will we get a bloody case? I'm almost as bored as you were when you shot the wall."

Sherlock, over by the window with his violin, grinned down at his companion. "I doubt it, John."

John covered his face with his hands, laying back into his chair. "I can't take it. Whenever we ran out of cases you would do something crazy or stupid, and I would nearly lose my head at you for it until we got another case!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, lowering his bow. "You'd prefer I do something crazy or stupid?"

"Yes. Well, no, depending… Oh, bloody hell," John huffed. "Never mind, Sherlock. I just wish we had something to do."

Sherlock set his violin down in his chair. "Care to have dinner at Angelo's tonight, John?"

John lowered his hands to glance at Sherlock. "Yea, alright. It's better than lying about here," he muttered, rising to his feet and stretching.

Sherlock grinned wickedly in triumph, tugging off his robe and folding it over the back of his chair. "Hurry up then, John. I'm _hungry._"

John almost stopped at his last comment. Sherlock was _never _hungry. Not only that, but the way he said it…

His deep baritone voice had caressed the word in a way that sent pleasant shivers down John's spine.

But the military man shook it off, grabbing his coat and roughly pulling it over his shoulders. Sherlock couldn't help it if that was the way his voice was, right?

…

The table was already lit with a bottle candle when they got there, but John still suspected that Angelo had something to do with it. Sherlock sat down quickly, glancing over the menu with bored icy green eyes. John sighed and sat across from him, doing the same.

"You're acting different, Sherlock."

"Hmm?" he asked, not looking up from the selection.

"I said: you're acting different, Sherlock," John repeated.

Sherlock lowered his menu. "What do you mean, John?"

John shifted in his seat nervously, chewing the inside of his cheek. "Well, you've been… nicer."

"Have I? And you object to that, I suppose?"

"No, no," John muttered. "It's just odd. And your clothes-"

"What about my clothes?" Sherlock interrupted.

John rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Never mind." Then he went back to searching the menu for something to eat.

Sherlock smiled to himself. He counted that as a small victory.

"Sherlock!" Angelo greeted. "Back with your date, I see?"

"I'm not-" John protested.

"Quiet, John," Sherlock shushed. "I'd like water and the spaghetti, Angelo. What about you, John?"

"I'll… I'll just have the same," John grumbled.

"Absolutely!" Angelo said. "Right away."

"Why do people always think we're together?" John hissed when Angelo was out of earshot.

Sherlock's lips twitched as he met John's gaze. "Perhaps because we have a certain… chemistry."

John glared at him, but Sherlock decided to inspect the silverware, thus unaware of his partner's dirty look.

Sherlock could be so bloody infuriating sometimes. Then again, he did sort of sign up for it. But still.

Maybe he was right, though. They rarely had an actual fight. They made each other smile. Sherlock kept John on his toes. John kept Sherlock from starving to death. And every once in a while, their eyes would lock for a few seconds and a thousand silent words would pass between them.

He guessed that _could _make people think they might be in a relationship.

Angelo brought out their food after a few minutes. Sherlock thanked him and grabbed his fork, swirling it into the noodles. John half-smiled and did the same, glad Sherlock was feeding himself for once.

But this time was different, somehow. John was momentarily distracted by the manner in which Sherlock brought the fork to his mouth, sucking the noodles off it in a most inappropriate way. His tongue darted out to catch a stray noodle that dangled from his mouth as he chewed, humming in approval.

Heat flooded John's cheeks and he forced his eyes back to his food, angrily stabbing it and shoveling it into his mouth.

Why did he have to eat like that? Was he _trying _to be distracting?

"John," Sherlock said when his mouth was empty. As John watched Sherlock's tongue slid across his lower lip to wipe away sauce. "How is your spaghetti?"

"It's alright," John said lamely. In truth, he hadn't really tasted it. He'd just been eating; sticking it into his mouth, chewing, and swallowing.

"I find it quite _delicious_," Sherlock practically purred, looking up at John through his eyelashes.

John nearly choked. "Yea, yea," he muttered, going back to the noodles.

The torture didn't end when dinner did. When Sherlock finished his spaghetti, he ordered a hot fudge sundae.

_Oh, fuck. _

His mind was immediately flooded with horrible, wicked, naughty images involving Sherlock, ice cream, whipped cream, and melted chocolate. He fought them back as best as he could, but it only got worse when Angelo brought out the desert.

"Would you like some, John?" Sherlock offered.

Unable to speak, John shook his head. Sherlock shrugged, proceeding to enjoy his treat.

John couldn't seem to tear his gaze from the scene in front of him. He watched, mesmerized, as Sherlock dipped his spoon into the sundae before bringing it out and wrapping his lips around the spoon, sucking it clean and repeating.

Though it was rather chilly in the restaurant, John began to sweat.

_Puppies and kittens and ducks and dentists. Puppies and kittens and ducks and denti-_

_What the hell?_

Was that Sherlock's leg that just brushed between his? Oh! He did it again.

He was doing this on _purpose!_

Oh, that son of a bi-

Sherlock's phone rang. The detective lowered his spoon and pressed the phone to his ear.

"What do you need, Lestrade?"

John fumed across the table. The goddamned bloody bastard was trying to turn him on. Well, he'd teach him to do that kind of thing…

After a few seconds, Sherlock put his phone away and grabbed his coat, standing up. "We've got a case, John," he said merrily, already striding toward the door.

John got up as well and scrambled after him, the need for revenge burning in his mind.

Sherlock threw his coat on and dashed out the door, John hot on his heels. Outside, Sherlock only made it a few meters before John caught him by the back of his coat and hauled him into the nearby alley. He gave a faint grunt of surprise when his back hit the wall, but became silent when he looked at the furious expression on John's face.

"You… bloody… bastard…" he panted, glaring up at Sherlock. "You're doing this… on purpose!"

A wicked oh-yes-I-did smile graced Sherlock's lips and he chuckled. "Very good, John."

"Why?" he demanded.

For a few moments, Sherlock deliberated. He had several options. 1) He could evade the question by asking about the night in the bar. 2) He could claim it was an experiment. 3) He could say that he merely wanted the doctor to squirm.

But before he could finish this thought process, John tightened his grip once more. "Don't say a bloody word," he snapped. "Just shut up."

Then for the second time, their lips met.

But this time, Sherlock was ready. His mouth immediately responded, moving against his while his hands once again went into John's hair, pulling him closer.

John hadn't meant to kiss him again; not really, his emotions had just gotten away from him. He certainly hadn't expected Sherlock to react so quickly (and enthusiastically), yet when his tongue poked out in a 'hello, may I come in?' Sherlock's met it with a 'Why of course!'.

John's arm wound its way around the taller man's waist, their stomachs flush against each other. John also felt something solid and warm pressed against his belly. Sherlock gave a deep rumbling purr, sucking John's bottom lip into his mouth.

Later, John would remember pulling away only once, disbelieving of the situation, but Sherlock had caught him.

"Not this time," he'd vowed. "You're not escaping this time."

He hadn't pulled away again after that.

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**What will happen now? Smut or no? You decide! Leave a review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Final chapter!**

**My reviewers have voted smut, so smut it is. Not great, though, I haven't written any before.**

**I don't own Sherlock, blah blah blah**

**I don't have a beta and I'm not British, so I apologize for any errors. Let me know if you see any with a review or PM.**

**A big thank you to my reviewers. Each and every one of you are awesome and deserve a cookie! Love you guys!**

**Now, on to the smut!**

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John Watson had lost his mind. Really, there was no other way to rationalize his actions. He must have.

Well, at least, _he _thought. But what other explanation was there?

He had Sherlock Holmes pinned to the concrete wall of an alleyway, lips and tongues sliding against each other in the most mind-numbing, _erotic _manner.

He was bloody well enjoying it too!

And _that _was what convinced him he'd lost his mind.

Sherlock gasped, and John vaguely realized he squeezed one of his thighs between Sherlock's as he kissed down the taller man's neck.

"John," he groaned, sliding a hand underneath John's jumper. John shivered, his teeth scraping Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's skin tasted slightly sweet, almost like citrus. John thought it was fucking delicious.

Sherlock's hand suddenly jerked lower, into John's trousers. The doctor made a sound close to a whimper as those long fingers brushed over his heated arousal. In retaliation, he popped open the button on Sherlock's trousers and yanked down the zipper. Then he stiffened, his hand frozen in place when he felt what was there. Or really, what wasn't.

Sherlock had neglected to wear pants.

Well, hell. How many times had Sherlock marched around commando without John noticing?

Damn.

When Sherlock did the same, sliding his fingers into John's pants, John snapped out of his thoughts and thrust his hips forward into Sherlock's hand while his own gripped Sherlock's erection.

They gasped and moaned simultaneously, Sherlock burying his face into John's short sandy hair while John tried to regulate his breathing. He gave Sherlock an experimental tug, testing for his reaction, and Sherlock's entire body went taut. Sherlock mimicked the motion and John found himself shuddering in Sherlock's arms, his knees nearly giving out.

Sherlock took this as a lesson; John was showing him not only what pleased him, but also what pleased Sherlock. He followed his lead.

They pulled, stroked and squeezed, sweat dripping down their brows as they tried to silence each other in the quiet darkness of the empty alley. Every little noise echoed deafeningly around them, but neither could bring themselves to really care.

Sherlock eventually tensed against him, cheeks flushed; John immediately understood, moving his fist even faster.

And then Sherlock was gone, whispering John's name as hot liquid spurted over John's fingers for a few blissful moments. John followed quickly, his hips giving one last quivering thrust into Sherlock's hand, Sherlock's name on his lips.

They stood there for a few more minutes, catching their breath and leaning against each other. When he regained enough energy, John straightened, fixing his clothes.

He then realized that they had made a bit of a mess on his jumper. He muttered a few curses under his breath, looking up at Sherlock. For a few seconds, they simply stared at each other.

Then they burst into a fit of laughter.

It was all just so ridiculous they couldn't help it; John, who had claimed he wasn't gay a million and a half times, rutting against his flat mate like an animal in an alley.

When they had adjusted their clothing enough so that it wouldn't be too obvious what they had just been doing and Sherlock reached for John's hand, John didn't resist.

He thought about the night he'd gone with Sherlock to Angelo's for the first time and they had discussed Sherlock's sexuality.

_"__I'm just saying, it's all fine." _

He just smiled, laced their fingers together and didn't say a word.

...

They didn't meet Lestrade at the crime scene until about an hour later after going back to the flat to change their clothes.

"Where the hell have you been, Sherlock?"

"Having desert," the detective blurted.

Lestrade gave them a confused look, raising his eyebrow, and John and Sherlock dissolved into giggles.

When Greg noticed their interlocked fingers, he convinced himself he really didn't want to know.

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**I really appreciate reviews. I'm new at this so I'd still like some pointers! Hope you enjoyed!**


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